


Drown, Resurface

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reunions, old men being schmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he was honest (and Stan Pines was rarely honest) there was only one person he had ever loved. Of course, Stan Pines knew he was not going to get a happy ending. He was used to losing things.</p><p>He was not so used to them finding their way back to him.</p><p>Fiddleford McGucket thinks he's been through enough to deserve a second chance.</p><p>(set between Society of the Blind Eye and Northwest Mansion Noir. that basic reunion type fic for you all. sort of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The house was blessedly silent. These days it was rare that Stan Pines had moments alone. Let no one say he resented the children’s presence, lest they wished to receive a right hook to the face, but the twins were truly exhausting. The house was always in constant motion, with endless chatter or little feet beating the old wood. Now if he tried to settle down to his old pleasures of sitting alone outside or watching TV, it would be at most fifteen minutes before either or both sets of bright, brown eyes would bob into his line of vision.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan look! Grunkle Stan let’s do this! Grunkle Staaaaaan!” He might grumble and gripe, but they all knew he would eventually fall to their whims. And when the activity-of-the-hour was over he would feel euphoric yet utterly spent. He was glad he’d never had children. Who would he have had a family with anyways? Carla McCorkle? One of the pretty girls he’d met in Colombia? Go back to Jersey and find a woman with curves rounder than her accent? No, Stan Pines had neither the life nor the attitude that would have been good for raising a family, even if he wanted to. He was certain of that. No kids deserved to have him as a father. Hell, he had a hard time keeping his own life in order.

 

_That’s because you always make trouble for yourself, Stanley Pines! If you really wanted a different life you could have had one. I know you have the heart for it. You just require motivation._

Motivation for what? To be boring like you? A normal house, with an honest-to-god garden, church on Sundays, paying taxes-

_You don’t pay your taxes?!_

_Well, not alllll of them._

_Y-you are unbelievable!_

_Believe it, toots. I’ve done more than you could ever know about and you’re still getting kicks playing dollhouse. That wife business, honestly! How do you stand it? I got it hard enough with you and my bro bossing me around. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’d mind having an eyeful to help with the laundry, make me dinner. Wait, scratch that: I saw your girl at the lumberjack competition. Bet you’re the one in a frilly apron over the stove. Never catch me like that._

_Sure, hon. You are_ certainly _the epitome of manliness._

_Damn right! You really think this lone wolf could have a family? No way. What would I do with kids anyways?_

_Sometimes its different when they’re your own._

_You always wanted a mini-Fiddleford flesh blob that leaks moisture everywhere?_

_. . . passing over your distasteful description of my offspring, the answer to your question is yes. I did want to be loved and have people to love._

_I’m not enough for you, I guess._

_Must we retread this territory again? I do love you very much, but I love my wife and I love my son, too. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll want to settle down. You got that protectiveness about you. It’s a good fatherly instinct._

_Problem is, I can’t imagine wanting to be with anyone that long. Except you._

_Stanley . . ._

 

He’d sulked for two weeks after that. Yet, the vaguely Southern voice that swam through his memories was right about his paternal streak. Of course it was right. Fiddleford McGucket was always infuriatingly perceptive, in both his calculations and his relationships.

Fiddleford McGucket had been a good father. Until he wasn’t. They had wanted different things in life. Stan hadn’t wanted to be tied down. He traveled, he explored, he made his own work. Fiddleford had respected that and set his sights on goals physically closer to home. Perhaps that was why Mrs. McGucket had condoned their relationship; Stan was never around enough to be a threat. So, the time between seeing each other had grown longer.

He hadn’t noticed Fiddleford’s mind had left until it was nearly gone.

 

_Explain to me again why we’re not at your house this time._

_My wife left me. House destroyed in some freak accident._

_Oh, I’m sorry . . . uh, when did this all happen?_

_I’m not quite sure. Last couple months have been a bit hazy._

_Look, you two really loved each other. Is there no chance of getting back together? Get her flowers, get on your knees. I gotta know someone’s here to take care of you while I’m gone!_

_That’s cute, that you’re worried about me. I knew you and she weren’t best friends and all, but I’m glad you respected each other to the end. I was the luckiest fella, to get both of you. More than I ever hoped for. I never deserved any of it._

_Bullshit. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but: do you wanna talk about your feelings? If that would help._

_No, I don’t think so._

_What about the kid?_

_Turned eighteen two weeks ago. Moved out. I can’t quite recall, but I think there was something awful said between us. I went to the lake yesterday, but he won’t see me._

_Aw, look, you know I’m not good with emotions and words, but-_

_Stop it, Stanley. Let’s forget about all that. I want to be happy now. Just kiss me._

_Are you sure? I mean you’ve been having all this memory loss and losing a wife and kid can’t be good for your brain._

_Shhhh, I’m right as rain. Don’t trouble yourself, darling. Just shut up and make love to me._

_If that’s what you want . . ._

_It is._

_Then I got you covered. Stan Pines is still your man!_

 

By the time it was all over, he had resigned himself. It hurt, but was not unexpected. Gravity Falls took and gave unscrupulously. Perhaps that was why Stan felt so at home in this strange backwoods Oregon town, it could be as unpredictable and selfish as he was.

He found other things to love. Like Fiddleford had promised he would.

Yet, every time he saw Mabel and Dipper’s smiling faces there was that sore pang in his chest. He tried to beat it away with abrasive conversation and distracting activity. These children weren’t his and this was all temporary. He knew he would have lost them by the end of the summer had all gone as expected. Now with the portal’s activation looming it seemed he might lose them even sooner. What would happen to them in the ensuing mess? The sweat on his bed was not just from the summer heat. That those smiles might tarnish and it would be his fault, the worry festered in his mind and spat poison which spread aches through the rest of his body. He had started to take sleeping pills so he could sleep at night.

He was getting old.

 

Today he shucked off the padded black suit jacket as usual, dropping it on a hook in the kitchen. He really ought to look into finding some more summer appropriate wear. The fridge was open and a Pitt soda in his hand when he heard a knock at the door.

Blasted customers! Well, he still had most of the outfit on. Perhaps he could swindle one last customer. They deserved to lose their entire wallet for disrupting his evening. Maybe he’d buy Mabel those zebra stickers she’d been eyeing; that’d be a nice surprise. The kids were out tonight with their friends so he might have time to swing by downtown stores later if he felt like it. He could get the stickers, maybe a cantaloupe, some spare parts for Dipper, or even some fake eyeballs for the new display.

Looking forward to his outing gave him the energy for one last show. He ambled up to the front door, took a deep breath and threw it open.

“Welcome to the Mystery Shack!” The old spiel, he didn’t even have to think. “Step right in! Plenty of oddities to astound the mind, boggle the senses. Like this thing here!” grab the nearest object, in this case a set of dice emblazoned with multi-colored question marks instead of numbers (loving painted by Mabel), “It may seem ordinary, but you can release its true power if you buy and take it with you! To your house!”

There was no response, except the sound of some animal skittering in the trees. Stan frowned and looked down his nose, finally taking the time to examine the customer.

Familiar eyes loomed up at him, sunken with time, but no less bright. He looked impossibly small and fragile against the backdrop of the forest. The sun illuminated the wisps of his snow white hair, carrying on to caress the creases of old age. The long beard fluttered slightly in the breeze, out of sync with the body swaying in time to some internal rhythm. The whole picture was a stark reminder of the injuries Fiddleford McGucket's life had inflicted upon him. Stan resisted the usual urge to reach out and fold the smaller man into his arms.

“Ugh, not you.” He bristled.

“Stanley . . .”

“What?!” he bellowed.

Fiddleford started, hands flying up in defense only to flap uselessly in front of his face. The nervous wringing was quickly transferred to pulling a pair of green glasses from his pocket. He began to polish them with the end of his shirt, while looking up at Stan shyly through soft lashes. His mouth cinched in subtle amusement, but no full smile formed, as if he was afraid a fuller emotion might trigger the other man again.

Stan was overwhelmed. The drawl on his name had been achingly familiar. He could feel his shoulders slump in defeat and something unwanted bubbling up inside of himself. He had looked into those eyes many years since he had permanently settled into this town, each time with faint hope to hear his name with the familiar note of affection. Now it unnerved him to the core. He shoved the dice into his pants pocket, if only to have something to do with his hands.

“Ahhhh, look, McGucket,” he said, inching slowly back toward the door, “I don’t have time for this. Get off my porch and go eat trash or whatever you do.”

“Stanley, please.”

A hand grabbed his arm, wiry but strong.

“Let me in? I’m begging you, from the bottom of my heart.”

He’d never been able to deny Fiddleford’s heart anything.

“Yeah, okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all dialogue and I apologize in advance.

Fiddleford nodded vigorously, dropping his grip on Stan’s arm. The Mystery Shack’s owner exhaled sharply through his teeth. Damn it, he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. Fiddleford McGucket was danger, a siren blaring loud and clear. Stanley Pines was not good at letting go of the things he loved, the portal humming beneath his feet was a testament to that. Yet, Fiddleford, always exceptional Fiddleford, had forced his hand. Even in the midst of his madness the older man had been so stubbornly independent. He had left, fallen away, and Stan had not been able to stop him. Stan has a desire to cage him now. To take him down into the basement, show him the portal, clean him up, tell him he loves him and he would never leave this house. Selfish. But Fiddleford would not, did not want that. Still, he was too close, too close, and Stan knew his emotions were too dangerous.

Eyes flicked to the side defensively, as he stepped back, allowing the other man to enter the building. Sunlit yellow, sparkling clouds of dust blew up in the wake of McGucket’s thumping, bandaged feet. He came in like an animal, hesitant, but curious. The thin body was hunched, skinny neck pushing his face and eyes forward so he could better take in his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. All the exhibits were covered in curtains.

“So, what do you want?”

Fiddleford turned, looking surprised. Bushy eyebrows rose to his non-existent hairline. Stan crossed his arms

“You really live here? Can’t believe I never been in a fine joint like this before!”

Full comprehensible sentences, that was also new.

“Yeah, I live here. With the kids.” Stan tightened his arms. “You know that. You’ve been here.”

A barking laugh rolls out of the other man and, although he knows it is not true, Stan can’t help feeling he is the object of ridicule. He recalls the first time he heard that laugh. So unexpected, such a harsh sound from a seemingly delicate man.

It had been at his expense, of course.

 

_My, my, this is a surprise. Always reckoned you had not a gentle bone to you, what with that rough talk and those flyin fists. Who would have known all it took was a couple of kits to turn you soft!_

_Stop laughing! I don’t need cheek from nerds like you when I’m here trying to be a good person. What was I going to do, they were abandoned!_

_Oh, I do truly appreciate your Samaritan efforts, believe me. But, you look so utterly ridiculous carrying kittens! I’m so sorry, I can’t help myself._

_Gonna just sit there laughing instead of earning your keep around this goddamn place. At least help me clean them up before I take them to the shelter._

_I’d be glad to._

_Here, hold these two while I look for supplies._

_What are you?-oh, hello, pumpkin! Aren’t you a beautiful girl! Wait you-watch yourself, darling, don’t struggle! Poppa Fiddleford is only trying to help you._

_Gross. They’re cats, not babies. Now I think we had some extra towels in the closet . . ._

_Can I help you?_

_Hey, uh, I just wanted to say: Thanks for your help back there._

_You’re very welcome._

_Great. Guess I better get back to work._

_I’m sure whatever you’re doing is of the utmost importance and I would not dream of keeping you from it._

_Yeah, well, your laugh is stupid._

 

Fiddleford had been gentle and deceptively small, but his loud laugh had been both boisterous and charming. Stan had found he craved it. Especially when Fiddleford laughed for him. When happiness scrunched up Fiddleford’s face and the crows feet around his eyes grew larger, Stans heart had felt it might fall out of his chest. He wanted to kiss those laugh lines. Eventually he did. Fiddleford laughed more when he kissed him. So he pressed lips to dimples and shaking neck and warm lips, which parted in rapture. They were inevitable.

 

Now, Fiddleford laughed like an old picture, the sepia tone of nostalgia, warm yet muted.

“Don’t know much of anything! Ohhh, but those cute lil’ whippersnappers sure done saved me. What’s their names? Label and Dapper? No, no, stupid, McGucket that’s not right, those aren’t names!” he hit his palm against the side of his head, “Names! Real words people call ‘em! like uhhh, sabel, table, Ma-bella-hoo-haw-MABEL! And Dipper! You know, my mind’s been gone for so long. I forget a lot of things . . .” his voice trailed off as he looked forlornly at his feet, and then his head snapped up and he looked Stan straight in the eyes, grin spreading from ear to ear. His gold tooth glinted.

“B-but I’va been remembering!” he exclaimed.

Stan’s blood ran cold.

“What do you mean?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “Nope, not here, not yet.”

“You won’t tell me or you can’t tell me? Out with it, you kook.”

“Soon, tomorrow, today! I’ll know!”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. If you came here to play games this isn’t gonna work. I ain’t your chump.”

“But," Fiddleford eyes grew wide, like a spooked horse, "what if it never comes? So much lost. ‘S not right! Gotta find it. That’s not the right mem-mo-RY!” The man retreated into himself. A vein in his neck pulsed under thin skin as he strained. He hit his head again, this time with more aggression. Each collision of palm to ear punctuated by a syllable. “Stan-ford, stan-ford, fid-dle-ford-“ The words grew higher in pitch, in distress.

Stan surged forward and grabbed the other man by the back of his head, pulling it forward so they are face to face. Those bright blue eyes bounced around, unfocused.

“Get a hold of yourself, McGucket.”

“That’s not what you-it’s not right when you say it. You say it different! Say-said, ahhh, I don’t remember! I don’t remember! I’m trying!” He shook violently in Stan’s grasp.

“McGuc-Fiddleford!” Stan growls, as if he could cow the other man into submission, to overpower that which frightened him.

Fiddleford is volatile and whatever possesses him now comes to a boil as the withered mouth opens, emitting a long, pitiful wail. The desperation of an animal cuts through Stan’s soul. Thirty years of distilled sorrow burn. Stan is seized with the urge to do anything that will make the sound stop, it hurts too much.

He kisses him.

Suddenly, Fiddleford is frozen. The whole world is frozen. It’s not the same. The lips are thinner, the teeth less involved, no heavy breathing, no passion. This was strong. Unrelenting. Yet, somewhere in the back of Fiddleford McGucket’s head, a lightbulb goes off.

Stan’s hands were still holding his face when Fiddleford pulled away.

“Oh my stars,” he murmured. A hand comes up to cover Stan’s on his cheek, coarse and calloused.

“Oh god,” Stan whined in his throat. He felt sick, this could not be happening, this was all a fever dream. It had been thirty years. Fiddleford was crazy.

“I remember that,” Fiddleford said emphatically, before collapsing against Stan’s chest.

“Stanley, Stanley, Stanley,” a mantra for a sinking man, murmured into the white shirt. Stan can feel the sharp bones underneath the fabric. When was the last time he ate?

“I woke up this morning and I remembered that name. Stanley. It's all I been thinking about. That’s YOU,” an accusatory finger stabbed Stan in the chest, “And, I remembered this door. And I-I knew I had to come here to see you, but I can’t for the life of me figure why.”

“You think I know what goes on in that mess you call a head? Never did, never will.”

“Was that why I came? A kiss?”

“No. Nope. You’re wrong.”

“Stanley.“

“Ahh, you must be tired. See you’re falling on your feet right here. I just cleaned this place, why should I let a vagrant like you dirty it up. Why don’t we get you to sleep? Yeah, that’s right. Then you’ll forget all about this.”

“You’re a mighty fine man.”

“Aw, jeez, shut up.”

 

The first thing he noticed was the smell, the familiar musk of sweat and old wood. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. Ah, that hurt. Why did his body hurt so much? Maybe Stan would know.

An arm swept out searching for the other man lying beside him, but the bed was cold. No one had laid next to him. Yet he had vague sensory flashes of warm limbs, and rough stubble against his neck. The same springs creaked, and the smell of another had invaded his senses making him giddy. Where was that?

“I know you’re awake, sleeping beauty.”

Fiddleford sat up. Something low in his back cracked.

“Sucks to be old.” Stan’s laugh floated melancholy, from where he was perched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped as if he feared they might do something unwanted of their own accord.

“Your bed hasn’t changed,” Fiddleford looked down, surprised. “And you’ve still got . . . “ he waved his hand in Stan’s direction. “Face,” he said inelegantly.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Sure. If you like, darlin’.” He offered a coy smile. The effect was ruined by the lines in his face and his current disheveled state.

Stan sighed, turning to stare at at the wall. Fiddleford watched the hunch of his shoulders. The old man pulled the blankets around his slight frame and crawled slowly over. Stan must have felt him approaching, but there was no change, no sign of recognition in the other man’s body. Fiddleford McGucket knew rejection when he saw it.

“I reckon I should go. I got things to do.”

“Yup, me too. Always busy around here. A bona-fide salesman and a Grunkle to boot ain’t exactly the cushiest job.”

Fiddleford stood up, letting the blanket fall about him like a cape.

“You can take that with you. I know its summer right now, but it does get cold.”

“Thank you kindly.”

He trod toward the door, then down the single set of stairs. Stan followed at his heels like a steadfast dog.

 

The moon was bright. Round and full, it hung hauntingly in the sky. It was a night that called all creatures to be out. Fiddleford McGucket wasn’t a full man. With the streaked night sky billowing out around him he looked much better to Stan, more at ease. He belonged wild now.

“Don’t come back, McGucket.”

“That’s not what you call me.” Fiddleford’s voice was stern. “Call me by my name. Fiddleford. Like I remember. This is important. I have to keep remembering.”

“Until you fall all crazy again? You’re talkin’ real straight now, but who knows how much longer that’ll last. I don’t want to do this.”

“What’cha mean?”

“Look, you gotta know I did care. Do care. But you didn’t want me. You wanted to live in the dump, because you didn’t know. I tried to take you back a couple times, make you live here, but you always broke out. Could hide all the metal in the world from you and you’d still make some contraption out of like, broom handles and a paper clip. I never knew where you went.”

“I went to forget. But I can’t do that now! Big things are comin’. I can see it. I gotta be ready. An I swear, I’m getting better. Your kids are helpin’ me.”

“I don’t know what that means. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“Well, whether you like it or not I think I shall be seein’ more of you.” He leaned forward and delicately placed a kiss upon Stan’s cheek. It was a tentative gesture, a simple note of future intent, but a wide hand caught him by the back of his head as Stan’s face swerved to catch his lips fully.

“Ugh. No teeth. Never gonna get used to that.” Stan said, gasping slightly at their release.

“We got time. Wasted thirty years, but I think I still got a few on me.”

“This is disgusting.”

Fiddleford grinned and hopped off the porch.

“I’ll be back!” he yelled as he disappeared down the path. “You can bet your teeth on it!”

 

Perhaps it was all meant to be. The portal was readying, Fiddleford was regaining his memories, the past flashing back to the present at even faster rates. All these events spiraled around him; the potential consequences were dizzying. The culmination of thirty years time would come this summer. He had too much to think about.

Yet in that moment, as Stanley Pines stood on the precipice of a new era, he only thought of one thing: that he hoped Fiddleford McGucket might come again tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you can spare the time, rates and reviews are greatly appreciated! Your feedback always help me write in more quantity and better quality. ❤️
> 
> (Also, I run www.fiddlestan.tumblr.com if you want more Quality Content TM )


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